


Give and Take

by blue_wonderer, wonderingtheblue (blue_wonderer)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Fluff, Hot Chocolate, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective Leonard Snart, emphasis on the comfort, len doesn't mean to be good at comfort but he is, not that he admits it, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 12:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14569530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/wonderingtheblue
Summary: Len breaks into Barry's apartment so much he might as well have a key. It's all fun and good except the morning Len breaks in to find Barry crying into his kitchen counter. And, really, there's nothing else to do with that except make some hot chocolate.





	Give and Take

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRedHarlequin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedHarlequin/gifts).



Len just intended to break in to Barry’s apartment for a little _tête-à-tête_ between him and the hero. 

Mostly, it was because Len had a job planned for tomorrow night and he thought that maybe if he pointed Barry in the direction of a meta that’s been causing a lot of problems lately—a meta who had no inclination to join the Rogues and follow their code of conduct, cursory footnote though it be at times—then Barry would be too distracted to notice Len’s little dalliance until it was already well under way. 

(And if he also thought that this particular meta was too dangerous to leave alone any longer well then, it’s not like he’d gone soft or something as ridiculous as that. His and Barry’s deal was all about giving each other room to work and Len couldn’t do that with a loose meta, that’s all.)

A much smaller, secondary reason for his impromptu visit was of course to see the appealing flush on Barry’s face that was three-quarters irritation and one quarter something else. Embarrassment, maybe. Possibly something even more interesting. Len doesn’t know why Barry even bothers to get mad any more, not when Len’s broken into his apartment so many times he’s lost count. 

(This will be the fifth time.)

He has one brief moment where he hesitates outside of Barry's door because he suddenly realizes that it’s four in the morning. He didn’t know it had gotten so late—so early? He’s been riding the high of researching and planning a job, nerves jittery from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and he hadn’t honestly realized what time it was. Len shrugs it off, knowing that Barry could still be up at this hour, either just coming in from crime-fighting or channel-surfing because he doesn’t need much sleep (which Len had learned about during the second time he’d broken in). He elects to just walk in through the front door—the lock is so easy he might as well have a key—though he does consider the kitchen window for a half-second. It’d been hilarious when he crawled in through the window the last time. Barry had even looked impressed—he lived on the sixth floor, and it was a drop straight down from his kitchen window.

Len’s not quite expecting to find his nemesis slumped over and crying into his kitchen counter. He pauses mid-step over the threshold, and debates whether or not he wants to back out and come again another time because, no, playing on the side of angels when it suited him was alright now and again, but he did not sign up to comfort any heroes, no matter how _dashing_ they were. 

And then Barry looks up at him. There’s a lamp on in the living room, and a counter light on in the kitchen. Both suffuse Barry in a play of golden light and shadows and Len can clearly see the tears streaming down Barry’s face. 

Len’s been spotted now. He thinks about leaving anyway, dick move or no because it’s not like that’s ever bothered him before. But Barry scrubs desperately at his eyes, visibly tries to swallow back his tears, clearly mortified to be caught crying by a villain. 

The tears just come harder, like they won’t be dammed up, and Barry’s face crumples again, this time in helpless anger at his own weakness. 

Len steps into the apartment and closes the door. 

He walks past Barry and into the kitchen, flipping on the light and digging into his refrigerator and cabinets. He doesn’t say anything, pretends not to notice how Barry watches him for a minute, shoulders tense and guarded. He doesn’t acknowledge when Barry finally turns away from him, slumping back into himself. Out of the corner of his vision, Len can see Barry rubbing furiously at his eyes again. 

He has no actual clue what to say. He hasn’t had to… do this with very many people. Mick, a few times back in juvie. Lisa once or twice since, but both he and Lisa had learned long ago that they’re not so good at the whole “cheering up” thing. It’s not like they had any role models to follow in that department. If it was Mick, Len would deal out some drawling barbs and then set Mick on something else to think about for a while. If it was Lisa, they’d go out for ice cream and plan a heist with a lot of interesting explosions, not necessarily in that order. He may even bump her shoulder with his in that not-hug that they do. 

Barry’s different. He’s both soft and jagged-edged. He’s used to fatherly types like Joe West who want to talk everything out until it’s dead and buried. He’s used to running away from his problems at the speed of light. 

So, Len makes hot chocolate. 

His grandfather taught him, and Len used to make it for Lisa when he could. Cream and vanilla were crucial, but of course Barry doesn’t have the cream so Len makes do with just the milk. While Len works, he listens as Barry’s sniffles and little gasps grow quieter and fewer in between. 

Barry does have mini marshmallows this time, though. Perhaps a little conceitedly, Len entertains the thought that Barry bought them for him. 

He sets the saucepan aside to cool, dumps a truly heinous number of marshmallows into each of the two mugs he pulled from a cabinet (a Harry Potter mug and one with a beaker and some sort of bubbling chemical on it that says “you’re overreacting"—cute). He takes up the mugs, passes Barry without a word, and heads into the living room.

He places the mugs down on the battered entity that Barry probably calls a coffee table before sitting on the couch, bringing one of the cups to his lips. Could’ve used the cream to make it a bit smoother, but the hot chocolate is sweet and good. 

Len finally looks up when the kitchen chair scrapes and Barry eases into the living room. His hair is sticking up in every direction. He has an oversized shirt on and old gym shorts with paint splatters on them. He’s barefoot and his arms are crossed over his middle. He blinks at Len owlishly, swaying in place, like he wants to step forward but suddenly remembered his admittedly minuscule sense of self-preservation (now, of all times). 

Len takes another sip and waits. He quirks a brow. "It’s getting cold.” 

Barry sighs before shuffling forward. “This is so weird.” His voice is raw and low from crying, his face splotchy, eyes red, but the tears are long gone. 

Len thinks Barry’s going to take the mug and sit in one of the chairs to the side or across from Len, but he doesn’t. Instead, Barry sits next to him, close enough that the heat and scent of him invades Len's senses. Barry reaches and brings the mug to his chest and then to his mouth, blowing gently, but doesn’t drink. 

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re about to ask,” Len says. 

“Why would I? You’d just lie.” 

“Finally catching on, Scarlet,” Len drawls approvingly. Barry’s eyes cut to him then. It’s hard to make out their color in the light, but Len can see the way Barry’s eyebrows raise and the corner of his mouth quirks in something like fondness or at least amusement.

Barry takes a sip, then another. Another. 

“It’s good,” Barry mumbles, mostly to the melting marshmallows. 

“Can’t skimp on the vanilla and cream,” Len agrees. “Though you didn’t have the cream.” 

“I’ll make sure to have it for the next time you visit,” Barry snarks, his voice the strongest it’s been all night, though he still sounds wrung out and tired. 

“Like the marshmallows?” 

Barry chokes a little on his next sip. 

Len smiles satisfactorily at his Harry Potter mug and leans further back into the couch, deciding that he could totally do this comfort thing for someone who isn’t Mick or Lisa. Not that he wants to. Not that he’s doing it _now_. He just made Barry hot cocoa at four in the morning because he broke into his apartment. Give and take. Take and give. That’s his deal with Barry–it’s all about balance with them. 

“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?” Len asks warily, mentally prepping himself for what was sure to be an awkward conversation. But he figures, hell, he’s here anyway, already made hot chocolate for the kid, might as well ask what was wrong. 

Barry blows out a breathy laugh as he leans his head back against the couch. “No,” he says quickly, emphatically. “ _Hell_ no.” He rests the mug on his lap, thumb idly stroking along the rim. The hot chocolate is already almost gone. 

Len nods, chiefly relieved. 

“…But thanks. For, you know. Asking. And for the hot chocolate.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I was just passing through.” 

Barry snorts softly. “You might as well have a key,” he murmurs. And then, somehow, between one moment to the next, Barry’s cheek is against Len’s shoulder and he’s fast asleep. 

Len spends a full minute blinking incredulously at him. He spends another minute contemplating leaving. Just—just sliding out from under Barry, who cares if it wakes the kid up? _Len_ certainly doesn’t. 

What he ends up doing is sitting still and finishing his hot chocolate. When the mug threatens to slip from Barry’s lax hands, Len catches it and quietly sits it back on the coffee table. Barry stirs, but only to bring his legs up on the couch and curl further in to Len. 

Len rolls his eyes and also maybe, just a little, tilts his face briefly so his nose is buried in Barry’s curls. 

“Will you make me more?” Barry slurs. Len glances down but Barry’s eyes are still closed. “In the morning?” 

“Depends,” Len replies. “What’s in it for me?” 

“French toast,” Barry sighs and Len can feel the warmth of his breath through the material of his shirt. “Eggs. Bacon.” 

“It’s a deal.” 

**end.**

**Author's Note:**

> @wonderingtheblue on Tumblr. :) Come say hi!


End file.
